


we all become

by Resamille



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Established Relationship, M/M, Reincarnation, Singer Keith (Voltron), Transistor AU, but also not really, but not really, i guess, probably, sometimes your sword is also your boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23616418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resamille/pseuds/Resamille
Summary: The news reads: "Cloudbank's beloved talent, Red, has died. The growing Process threat has claimed countless lives, including our city's young idol. Red skyrocketed to fame a little over five years ago, after a resounding prediction from known statistician..."Keith stops reading. He already knows this, and obviously the media is wrong, anyway, given that he's still alive. No one even knows what's going on anymore. The Process is taking everything. Cloudbank's screwed.Still, it's a nice thought.Keith glances at the sword leaning against his table. Time to go back out, he supposes. The Process is a growing threat, but he has Galra to track down.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	we all become

**Author's Note:**

> a new vld fic??? in MY 2020??? more likely than you think!
> 
> anyway i'm feral dont talk to me this has been sitting in my wips for ages and i felt a sheith-inspired need. 
> 
> obviously spoilers for Transistor. you probably don't have to have played the game to mostly follow what's going on??? but it would definitely help because you'd like. know what's up yknow. and if you haven't played Transistor, you totally should. it's a gorgeous game. also note that all funky name changes are references to specific characters in the game. I wanted people to be able to tell which character was playing which role. that being said, I also took some liberties of my own. 
> 
> tw for character death but like the whole point of the game is that people don't actually die so it's. yknow.

“ _But when I look up to where the sky should be... I see you.”_

Shiro's fingers glide over the lapels of Keith's suit jacket. It's a soothing motion that steadies Keith's nerves.

“You'll do fine,” Shiro says softly, even as Keith's gaze begins to wander towards the stage. The glare of the lights reflect off the gold paneling on the floor.

“I don't fit in here,” Keith mutters back. His eyes linger on the exquisite details of the venue: the gold trim on velvet curtains, a deep red; the cream of white marble columns framing the stage; champagne glasses glinting in the hands of members of the audience. Perhaps, if he catastrophically fucks up, everyone will be too drunk to notice.

Ha.

He's never performed anywhere as high-end as this.

“Keith,” Shiro's voice draws him back. “You'll be fine. You're amazing.”

Keith bites his lip, worrying it, but he can't stop the smile quirking at the corners of his lips. Shiro's right. His voice has carried him this far.

“Yeah?” Shiro says. His hands rest on Keith's shoulders, eyes trained on him—only Keith. Like the world beyond their little curtained-off backstage doesn't exist.

“Yeah,” Keith confirms.

“Good.” Shiro gingerly pushes back a loose bang away from Keith's brow. He leans down and kisses his forehead, sweet and gentle and caring, before he kisses Keith for _real_ , warm and passionate and filled with adoration.

“Go get 'em,” Shiro whispers against Keith's lips as they call for Keith on stage.

Keith feels himself smiling—way too wide, he has to get it in check before he appears from behind the curtain—as he turns, leaving Shiro in the shadows cast by curtains.

“Love you,” Shiro whispers as he goes.

“Love you too,” Keith answers.

Those are the last words either of them speak.

It all happens faster than Keith can react.

He's trying to find Shiro among the throngs of bodies, mingling. After the performances is always the worst. Everyone wants his attention. At least, here, he's actually one of the far less distinguished guests for once. He slips past someone with long white hair, a halfhearted _excuse me_ falling from his lips. He catches a glimpse of Shiro's bike jacket—and someone screams.

The crowds suddenly disappear, and Keith finds himself looking down a blade at a man with dark hair and a darker expression. It only takes a heartbeat for everything to go horribly, horribly wrong.

The flick of a wrist. A well-timed jump. Somewhere, another scream.

By the time Keith catches up with it all, Shiro is lying on the ground next to him, body crumpled, and the surrounding audience is scattering.

_Integration complete. Data corruption upon integration at 82%_

Horror snakes down Keith's spine, chilling his veins. His hand reaches out—makes contact with the handle of the enormous blade, if it can be called that. A jolt runs up his arm, bites into the skin of his hand and tightens around his throat. It pulls, there, and retreats.

This can't be happening. Shiro—Shiro can't be—

A sob chokes through his chest.

“Red,” someone says behind him.

His grip on the sword tightens, and he turns over his shoulder to snarl: _stay back_.

Except no noise comes out. His voice—gone.

It's the woman from earlier, long white hair spilling down her back. “My deepest apologies, Red,” the woman says. Keith realizes he knows her, if only in passing. Honerva Kendrell.

“We have to _go_ ,” a gruff voice says from nearby. “Zarkon is already in the car.”

“We need the Transistor, first, Sendak,” Honerva says gently, albeit curtly. “And for that we need Red's cooperation.”

Sendak—the name rings a bell, Sendak Reisz. Keith's seen his name, mentioned as the organizer for almost any event in the city of Cloudbank. He approaches over Honerva's shoulder, looming.

Her hand reaches out for Keith, or, more precisely, towards his hand resting on the hilt of the... Transistor. Yeah. That feels right. The Transistor.

Keith makes a noise from somewhere in his chest, a growl as animalistic as it is fueled by grief.

Honerva's hand falters.

The jolt reaches up through Keith's arm a second time. Now, though, it guides. It has taken from him, and given in return. Standing straight, Keith pulls the Transistor from Shiro's body, and with it comes a surge of power that forces Honerva back. She stumbles before catching herself.

It sings along Keith's skin, echoes against his bones.

_Keith. Keith. Are you okay? Please be okay... There you are._

“Ah,”' says Honerva. “Shit. The Transistor integrated a Trace from him.”

“Go,” Sendak says. “I'll take care of it.”

Honerva seems to scoff. “Be careful. It'll have that man in there too.”

 _That man_. Shiro. In the Transistor?

“Not like he knows how to use it,” Sendak mutters.

Honerva _does_ scoff at that. “As if we do, either. We'll be waiting.”

With that, she flees from the reception.

Sendak glances over his shoulder to watch her go, and then turns to Keith. He takes a careful step forward, and smiles, all teeth. Keith supposes, in another scenario, that Keith might have found him pleasant, at the very least. Unassuming, despite his large stature. Commanding without being strictly imposing.

Right now, though, he's a threat.

_Slow down. Deep breath._

Shiro's word ring through Keith's ears. His body thrums with it.

“Keith, is it?” Sendak says, and Keith shudders at hearing anything but his stage name on a stranger's tongue.

A reply struggles against the trap of Keith's throat, and instead of words, he spits at Sendak's feet. It's a clear warning, and yet the man takes another step forward.

Keith narrows his eyes, breathes in, and the world falls quiet.

Sendak's next footstep is poised midair, movement slow.

_Turn() initiated_.

Keith can feel the power in his hands. Whatever this thing is, it's more than meets the eye. Whatever this thing is—well, it's a bit of him, now, he supposes. It's a bit of Shiro, too. He'll fight for that.

Keith blinks. He moves at full speed while Sendak has been reduced to a fraction of time—while the world lies in wait.

Keith hoists the Transistor up in his grip. It doesn't feel right to stab it at Sendak like a sword, and it's not like he... He's not sure if he _wants_ to kill him. He's—but they killed Shiro, yet...

Instead, Keith swings the Transistor up and brings it down in a slash until it embeds itself into the ground.

_There you go. Like that._

He breathes in. The world catches up. Sendak goes flying across the room and lands against a column, the air knocked out of him. From where he lay, a phone rings.

Keith stands defensively between Sendak and Shiro's body, holding tight to the Transistor.

Sendak struggles up, pulls his phone from his pocket.

“Yes,” he growls out. And then, “Shit. Tell Lotor to get it under control. I can't get it. He'll have to make do.”

Sendak casts a look in Keith's direction. And then he turns towards the exit. “I'm not going back. I just got thrown across the room.” The door slips shut behind him.

Keith sinks to his knees. He lets the Transistor stand where it's thrust into the ground, leaves it to crawl towards Shiro's body. A thin trickle of blood slips from the corner of his mouth onto his collar, not to mention the smear across his chest. Keith feels tears streaming down his face.

He searches—vainly—for some trace of Shiro in his body. No heartbeat. No breath. No warmth.

_You're okay. I'm here. Come on, Keith. We should go._

Keith clutches at Shiro's shirt, lets the sobs come and wrack over him. By the time the worst has passed, the moon streams light in through the skylights above.

_Get up, Keith._

Keith pulls away from Shiro, resolve settling into his movements. Carefully, he pulls Shiro's jacket from his body and discards his own. He feels so much more like himself, a bit more of Shiro wrapped around him instead of the aching formality of performance.

_The bike. It's parked out front. Head straight. Don't turn left._

Keith picks himself up. Takes hold of the Transistor and drags it along with him.

Together, they get on the bike and go.

“ _Look, whatever you're thinking, do me a favor: don't let go.”_

Tears sting at his eyes. He'd like to blame it on the biting wind as he speeds away from the venue. He wants to scream. Wants to cry out and blame the world. Wants to call out for Shiro, as if it will change anything.

But when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out but a broken noise.

It's not like he asked for this. His voice has carried him so far, but abandons him now. His fame, his fortune—it's never meant much to him. Now, it's worth even less.

Prestige won't bring Shiro back.

Prestige... is what got him killed.

If Keith hadn't—

If he'd never been noticed, so long ago.

 _Such a pretty voice_ , in a world that's constantly looking for new toys to enthrall it. This city is toxic. It plays with you until you're no longer interesting, and then throws you to the curb like the worthless trash you are to them. You're nothing, at your core. It's all superficial.

Like the skypainter—whatever happened to him? Cloudbank got tired of forest greens and sunset reds. Blue was always the fan favorite, anyway.

So they must have thrown him away, too.

And that magician, if he could be called one. Keith remembers occasionally being pitted against Coran the Magnificent in up-and-coming artist polls. Keith always won. Coran's popularity peaked with his disappearance.

Keith's own fame, as long-lasting as it was, came from his rebellion against the trends. He kept to himself. Quiet, simple. His songs were poems he kept close to his chest. Written in the steam rising from Shiro's tea as a smile crinkles in his gaze over the brim of his cup. In the stars from Keith's balcony, Shiro's shoulders pressed close against his to fend off the chill as they watched the sky illuminate, no matter what color. In the heat of Keith's skin as Shiro paints the curve of his back with marks, as if his lips were stained with ink as they caressed along the bow of his spine.

Keith's songs were real. They were _human_. That's why they were popular. And Keith, himself, a mystery, because he didn't want the city prying into his life, and that made them all the more eager to reach between his ribs and rip out his heart, just so they could watch how it beats between their bloodied fingers.

Yeah. Cloudbank is a city that chews you up and spits you out. And now it's turned on Keith, too. Just like all the others before him.

Perhaps that's why he'd fallen in love with Shiro.

Shiro, the boxer, the champion, who took all that Cloudbank could throw at him and laughed. Shiro, who could fend off the world with a smile. Shiro kept to himself, too, until the day he met Keith in a too-fancy bar, whispered a shitty pickup line and swept Keith off his feet.

He was never Red when he was with Shiro. It was always just Keith.

_We could get out of here. Skip town. Cloudbank's gone to shit, anyway._

Keith makes a left turn.

_You're going back?_

Keith glances to the side. This bridge was recently rebuilt, the pristine white sparkling just as much as the water below. Cloudbank, ever-changing, stares at him in the reflection of the river. He hates it—he _hates_ it, and it hates him—but it's beautiful.

It's beautiful. It's his city.

_The Galra are probably celebrating right now_.

Keith turns away from the skyline, lights blinding him. Tears, too, though they're slowing.

The Galra can try and take this from him, but at the very least, he's going to get revenge. They have their cushy office building, and Keith will have to get through Highrise to get there, but maybe he can stop at his apartment, one last time.

There's something on the road ahead, and Keith squints until he realizes there's no way around it.

He skids to a stop. He's jolted forward as the front wheels slam against the barrier. Damn city lockdown procedures. What's going on?

And that's when he sees the body.

It's crumpled against the side of the road, tucked against the brick and buildings. Keith approaches cautiously. In his heart, he knows it's too late. But, maybe.

As he approaches, he can feel it: death, sinking into bones, and yet, there's still something left. The Transistor glows in Keith's hands, communicating, searching, reaching, taking.

_Lance Yon-Dale. Integration complete._

Ah, that was his name. The skypainter.

_The Process got to him._

Keith wonders, for a moment, what kind of man he was. Perhaps he paints a different sky, now. Perhaps he doesn't paint at all. Was there anyone else, like Keith, whose fame has brought nothing but cynicism? All the prestige in the world could not rid Keith of the sinking feeling of desolation, that Cloudbank would only ever be fit to be destroyed, in the end.

Even now, the city is empty and ruinous. He's in the center of the cultural district, and the streets are barren. Trash spills across the road, and the blood from Lance's body darkens the sidewalk where he lay. It feels as though something grey and colorless has fallen over the buildings, turning them to mindless stone. Ah, but that's what they were already, weren't they?

_The Process got to Cloudbank, too._

There is nothing left here except sentiment.

How tragic that funerals are meant for those still living, and yet the only way Keith might pay respect as been stolen from him. Well, he never felt his voice was fitting for funerals, anyway.

Keith's mouth forms the words _I'm sorry_ , but there is nothing. Not even the sound of night birds on the rooftops. Only wind and fragments of the world. Keith presses on, away from the body, around the barrier, and towards venues Keith is far too familiar with.

_Hey, end of the plaza. It's you_.

Memory haunts him, and even now, his face stares back from posters against the brick in a nauseating taunt. In the photographs, he's not smiling. He's looking towards the edge of the paper, just barely turned away, and his hair falls across his face in artful shadow. The lighting, when the photographers took the shot, is gold and red, like the carpets celebrities walk, like the blood staining the gold buttons on Shiro's jacket.

_They took your voice. But we took something of theirs._

It's a mockery of success.

_Let's just go._

His eyes burn with held tears, and Keith turns away. It hurts, to be alone. He starts towards the square. He'd performed there, before, after the release of a new song. Shiro talked him into it, he thinks, as Shiro talked him into most things. Shiro gave him courage.

Grip tightening on the Transistor, Keith steps into the empty square, ghosts of crowds lingering on the peripherals of his vision.

Shiro gives him courage.

He gets about halfway across the brick before he hears something. An echo of music notes—his own, he realizes—but off-key and discordant. For a moment, Keith thinks he must be hallucinating the image of Sendak Reisz in front of him, but no, that's definitely his broad shoulders in the same dress shirt from earlier.

But something has... changed.

His voice, for one, once a deep and growling baritone, has gone gravelly and haunting. It creaks through his throat as he echoes Keith's song into the night. As Keith approaches, Sendak looks up with unnatural pale eyes, and Keith watches in horror as his skin cracks like a layer of veneer, shedding and rearranging like scattered pixels.

Sendak's voice rages into a scream, and Keith staggers backwards.

_Turn() initiated._

The world slows down, and Keith watches as Sendak's hand twitches towards him in tiny fits. Revenge has brought him here, perhaps, but only sorrow drives him forward. Any fury Keith felt towards the Galra has been left behind with the body, on the street, or at the base of his poster on the wall. There is tragedy in this song.

There is tragedy in Sendak's death.

It doesn't take long to incapacitate him, when Keith has a weapon so powerful it rewrites time and space by will. The seconds stagger along, and it's like the landscape bends to Keith's need. When Sendak reaches for him, the ground lifts up and creates a barrier. A swing of the Transistor makes all obstacles fall away.

It's a quick fight. Quicker if you don't count the time that slowed.

Keith stands over Sendak's prone form, chest heaving. His hands, now remastered into tapered claws since his transformation, scrabble weakly at the ground, searching desperately for purchase, for reprieve.

_This... is what the Process can do? We can't just leave him like this._

Keith tugs up the collar of Shiro's jacket and plunges the Transistor through Sendak's body.

With a final relieved sigh, the life leaves him, and the Transistors learns.

_Hello again, Sendak_.

Keith doesn't look back as he leaves the cultural district. There's nothing for him there. He finds a speedboat on the banks of the river canal. Quicker than clambering through a broken, ever-changing city. No one is here to need it, anyway.

_You'll come back some day._

Keith never wants to see Cloudbank again.

“ _I love you so much, Red. You know that, right? It's true. It's true.”_

Keith's Highrise apartment is not necessarily a welcome sight. Inside are remnants of Shiro tattooed into the soul of the place. His favorite mug sits on the table, a half-eaten box of pizza from the night before, when they'd both been two tired to bother putting away the leftovers, his running shoes waiting by the door.

He doesn't know why he's here, really. Nostalgia, maybe, but this only makes it worse.

Keith takes a moment to scroll through his tablet. The news is all over the place, unreliable and messy, but one thing is for certain: the Process, a virus of evolution, is taking over the city to its roots. Over a hundred thousand are missing, sucked in by this transient thing, and the city itself—its trees and buildings and technology—are taken by it, too. The administrative records building downtown has completely disappeared. Just gone.

One article speculates a series of unknown causes. Keith types out a response:

 _The Galra did this_.

Erases it. Types up another:

 _Get out of Cloudbank immediately_.

Deletes that one, too. Settles on:

_Is anyone still listening?_

_I am._

Keith gets what he really needed to come here for—an address. Zarkon Kendrell is the leader of the Galra. Their headquarters, Bracket Tower, is in the Goldwalk district, northwest of Highrise. It's a lot of stairs.

_The spine of the world_.

An email alert pings at the top of Keith's tablet. Trivial, except that the sender reads _Honerva Kendrell_.

He opens it. No subject, just a single, desperate line: _we didn't mean for this to happen_.

Keith puts the tablet down and walks out of the apartment.

_Locked yourself out? But how will you... Oh._

He turns the corner of his building, the white of the Process creeping over the brick even here, and finds another body. The Transistor calls to it, and something must be left in marrow of his bones to call back. Keith steps towards it.

_Hunk Chein. Integration complete._

Ah, Goldwalk's invaluable philanthropist. His downfall surely, then, was not his involvement with Cloudbank's political sector, but rather his compassion.

Keith is beginning to sense a trend: the Galra wanted to rule Cloudbank in all its facets. Fame, politics, beauty, culture.

Empathy.

There is kindness in this city—fondness, too—and the Galra have ripped that away. They've taken the beating heart of Cloudbank and severed it from its veins. If Keith ever fathomed a recovery, after the Process, the Galra ensured that would not be possible. Not really.

Cloudbank may be an elusive beast of fancy and whim, but its people kept it _alive_.

Hunk was one of those people. It's a true loss. Keith would have liked to sing a song for him. He would have deserved one.

And in a world where the Process didn't exist, where the Galra didn't exist, maybe Hunk would have gotten one. Keith hums a few notes under his breath, aimless and anguished, and sets off towards Bracket Tower.

It's a long, winding climb. A thousand stairs and counting, as Cloudbank shifts and settles as the Process rebuilds it like an old machine, twisting the gears until their grind against each other with the scream of metal scraping metal. Carrying the Transistor, it's a harder climb, but Keith grips the weapon in his palm and presses onward.

As Keith ascends the final steps, a broadcast echoes from somewhere, Honerva's voice playing over some hidden screen:

_“Cloudbank, this is a formal admission of guilt. The Galra did this. Perhaps the worst of it all is that you will get no justice. We all share the same sentence.”_

_Why isn't Zarkon speaking on behalf of the Galra?_

Keith doesn't know the answer. Soon, he will. Bracket Tower looms before him, and inside, Honerva and Zarkon wait for his blade.

_What have they_ done _?_

Keith walks in. The doors are open.

At the receptionist desk sits a tablet, facing Keith. It displays a message notification. Keith has half a mind to ignore it, but he also has questions. If the Galra didn't mean for the Process to take over Cloudbank, then what was their goal? What did they need _him_ for?

He presses play.

Honerva's voice murmurs over the tablet's speaker, wavering and small in the expanse of the lofty entryway.

 _“The Process wasn't intentional. It—Lotor called it a_ medium. _We only wanted Cloudbank to persevere through its endless change. We thought we would be able to control it without the Transistor, but we have failed.”_

The message ends; Keith walks past the desk and enters the elevator.

“ _Hey. Something I've been meaning to tell you. Once this is all over, maybe there's still time to skip town. Standing offer.”_

When Keith gets to the roof of Bracket Tower, he expects a fight. The Transistor beats a steady thrum of encouragement against his palm. He doesn't expect the bodies.

_Cowards_.

Zarkon and Honerva Kendrell lay sprawled across the floor, with no visible wounds or Process-infection. Unlike the bodies in the streets, unlike Lance and Hunk, they look like they're sleeping. It's a peace they don't deserve, not after what they've done.

Keith draws closer to investigate. Zarkon's body is colder, and suddenly it makes sense why Honerva was speaking on behalf of the Galra. There's a note next to Honerva's hand, written in pen instead of typeface.

_“I am sorry I could not meet with you in person. Zarkon could not wait any longer to see you. Perhaps he had seen enough. We knew the stakes of what we were doing, and we knew if we were to fail, we would do so together.”_

They've taken the answers to countless questions with them to the grave. Hopelessness begins to settle in Keith's stomach like a stone, a pit that gnaws at his organs. They took the easy way out. It is so much harder to keep living.

It is so much harder to go on.

And without the guidance of revenge, or justice, or whatever fool's errand Keith thinks he's on, there is nothing keeping him going. Where would he go, after this? There is nothing for him in Cloudbank, not anymore.

With a mechanical hum, the Transistor begins to glow.

Hope sparks through Keith like fireworks—always coordinated, with the color of the sky, in Cloudbank. The Galra's secrets may yet be stolen from dead lips.

_Fairview._

Far from Goldwalk, back the way Keith came, Fairview poses a journey through a Process-infested city. Except... that the Transistor is the key to controlling the Process, if Honerva's messages are anything to go by. Keith walks to the edge of the building, feet planted on the perilous edge. The Transistor thrums under his fingertips.

Perhaps it is singing to him.

“ _Go ahead. Jump. We're not gonna fall.”_

Fairview is overrun.

Everywhere, the Process has taken hold. The buildings are white and pristine, blocks and shapes like a child's drawing of the landscape. There are no windows, or doors. There is nothing but the shadow of a city, bathed in silver.

It's like it's resetting it all. Back to the beginning. Before Cloudbank was a city, back when it was mere clouds.

Keith has to backtrack to get to Fairview. The square where he fought Sendak is not longer empty. It is filled to the edges with faceless shapes. Like mannequins, these featureless humans stand, waiting for a performance.

_You have an audience_.

Keith hums one of his songs, soft but fearless.

The shapes begin to clap.

It's a thunderous sound, drowning out the simple notes of Keith's wordless voice. The Process is rebuilding them, rebuilding Cloudbank, rebuilding _people_. Perhaps it has learned from the souls the Galra captured. Maybe it will learn Hunk's compassion. Maybe it will learn Lance's creativity. Maybe it will learn Honerva's devotion.

Maybe it will learn more, yet.

Keith stops humming when he sees the half-Process body, laying on the ground, and the faceless beings cease their applaud instantly. The Process must have brought it here, because the square was empty before Sendak came. Keith approaches and lets the Transistor speak with what remains.

_Pidge Gilande. Integration complete._

A mathematician and scientist, Pidge was an expert at peering into the future. Cloudbank was a statistical nightmare, given its propensity to defy expectations, but Pidge was renowned for their drive to predict the newest trend before it came.

Keith knew about them. They'd spoken of his fame before, when he was first starting out. They said he'd do well. Cloudbank, at the time, had disagreed, but Pidge gave something more valuable than numbers and experiments. They gave faith.

There's a terror, in knowing the outcome, and there's a terror in not-knowing, too. But to be confident in an answer, with the possibility of change—that was a gift few would ever take for granted. Pidge's research gave Cloudbank hope that no matter what, there would always be another day. There would always be another color in the sky.

Somehow this wretched, beautiful city still managed to contain endless good amid the horrible.

Now its all gone. A blank slate.

Keith must continue. With any luck, his bike will still be around here somewhere, not too far away. It would make the trip a little more bearable, to find some familiarity in a city wiped clean.

He finds the bike right where he left it.

“ _Hey Red. Thanks for the lift.”_

Lotor greets him.

Keith walks through the double gated entry of Lotor Bracket's studio, eyes trained on the man himself, perched at some control panel. His voice echoes down to Keith.

“The Process is just doing a job, you see. The Transistor is a brush with which to paint a city. The Process merely turns a city into a canvas. Into a canvas. That being said, I would very much prefer, very much prefer, if it was not currently doing that, seeing as I live in Cloudbank. Cloudbank-as-it-was.”

Keith stares up at him. He doesn't miss the stutter. He's fairly certain an engineer as well-known across the city as Lotor does not habitually repeat words. The Process, maybe? What are the stages of infection? Does it take your voice, too, like Keith had sacrificed his?

“The Transistor, as I'm sure you are aware, can compel the—can compel the Process to do as desired. I would much rather it did my job than the one it is currently doing, but in order for that to happen, I need it here. In the cradle. In the cradle.”

Words want to tumble past Keith's lips, but they don't come. Doesn't this man realize what he has taken from Keith? From Cloudbank? The Galra, whatever their intentions, have brought nothing but ruin on a doomed city in its prime. Cloudbank was going to fall—it was going to fall into obscurity, crushed under the weight of its privilege.

It was not meant to fall to an untameable cancer.

“There are traces, in the Transistor. If you listen close enough, you can hear them, sometimes.”

Keith feels something crack against his ribcage—his heart, he thinks. He could hear them? He knew there must be something of Shiro left in this miracle of a weapon, but he—he never thought—

_You can hear me, right?_

“Fun fact,” Lotor continues, ignoring the way Keith feels like he might faint. After everything, this is the breaking point. “You can get in, but you can't get out. Not really. One way. One way. Anyway, the Process has been working in Cloudbank for ages, and it has had its vacation, but it is time to get back—time to get back—to business. You must return the Transistor to me. To the cradle. I'm certain this will work. Trust me.”

Keith feels hot tears spills over his cheeks. He's only ever wanted to be loud when he's angry, and the sorrow from earlier, from the first death on the streets of Cloudbank, is now replaced by hot rage.

“You don't seem particularly pleased. Well, I'm sure if you must know, I'm not entirely upset about the Transistor coming back into my possession, but I'm sure, but I'm sure, we can come to an arrangement. I'd be quite happy—quite happy—to settle for simply not being wiped out of existence at this point. Which will happen, if the Process is left unchecked. So, if you would...”

Lotor motions, and Keith turns. At the end of the entryway is an opening, a slot, and Keith knows what it's for, but he can't.

This is all he has left of Shiro: a dirty, blood-stained jacket and a sword-tool that might talk, if he tries hard enough, and maybe it's a good thing his voice is gone, if he has to be very quiet to hear. These are the remnants of the love of his life.

It is so much harder to go on, and now that Keith has hope within his grasp, he doesn't want to let it go. He holds the Transistor close, the edges biting into his shoulder and forearm as he clings to it, and looks up at Lotor with as much defiance as he can muster.

_Keith. You have to._

“No,” Keith says, but there's no voice, no words. Just the motion and the desperation and grief and the ache of this terrible, terrible choice.

It is so much harder to go on alone, and he is certainly not the first one to choose the easy option. If he just stays here, a little while longer, then the Process will take them all, and there will be nothing left, and does it even _matter_ anymore?

_I want to see you again, someday. Face-to-face, I mean._

But, Lotor's voice, echoing: _you can get in, but you can't get out_.

If there is a Heaven—if the Country that welcomes weary souls into her fields exists... Can she reach those in the Transistor? Would dying doom Keith to eternity without Shiro?

_We came all this way for a reason. Just get it over with._

“We don't have much time, much time,” Lotor says. “The Process _will_ be here soon, and my defenses will only hold against it for so long. There isn't a choice here.”

Keith takes a deep breath, a slowly puts the Transistor in the Cradle.

“ _Look, no matter what happens, I love you. You know that, right? Bye for now. But I_ will _see you again.”_

Something has gone wrong. Keith may not be an engineer, but he's certain that something about this isn't right. This isn't Lotor's studio, nor is it Process-torn Cloudbank. This is—something else.

_I know you can hear me. I won't let you go. Stay with me. Stay with me._

This is the Transistor. Keith is _inside_ it.

Yet still, the blade sits in his palm, warm and familiar and comforting. Like coming home.

Lotor stands a ways off, a Transistor of his own propped against his hip.

“So the good news,” Lotor says, dusting off his pants legs, “Is that we seem to have stopped the Process. So in theory, we would live. It's just, well, someone is going to have to rebuild. And unfortunately, the only way back that I''m aware of is unpleasant. There can only be one, and I've put a lot of work into Cloudbank, and into my reputation for that matter.”

Keith looks up at him. He doesn't need a voice, now. Not for this.

It is so much harder to go on, but hope is worth it. He will follow Shiro to the end of the world and beyond. Keith will find him, no matter what. He will not be stopped here by a man whose world is nothing more than pride and greed.

Keith raises the Transistor.

_Turn() initiated_.

Keith opens his eyes and finds himself on the floor of Lotor's studio, the Transistor laying next to him. He holds it close, for a moment, tears brimming in his eyes. Hope, brimming in his chest. Then he stands, and he runs.

_We made it. It's just you and me._

Sunlight greets him, outside, and he keeps running. The Transistor thrums with life in his hands, and the city responds in kind.

_The city is yours._

His pace slows to a walk. He hums a song, one of his favorites. Hopeful. About what could be. He paints the sky blue, for Lance.

_Where are you going to start? Your apartment in Highrise?_

So much potential, at the tips of his fingers, and yet... He builds the bridge that Pidge had predicted, last summer, but hadn't quite got the scheduling right. The people of Cloudbank had always wanted a bridge to Fairview.

_What about Junction Jan's? You probably remember that gross corner booth we had our first date in._

Keith hums life into the streets of Cloudbank as he goes, just for a little. Homes and simple things. Keith's talent is in music, not in building a world from scratch. Fairview had been consumed by the Process, but now it breathes again. He hopes Hunk will forgive him for not making it back to Goldwalk. He has another goal in mind.

_What are you thinking?_

Just around the corner, and there's the spot. The Process consumed Shiro's body, the way it did all things, but Keith knows the place. The sight makes his breath catch painful in his throat all the same.

_Hey._

Keith hums, and the Transistor bends the world to his will, and the Process peels away from Shiro's body. He's slumped over, and there's still blood across his chest where the Transistor had pierced, an attack that had been meant for Keith.

_That's not me. Not anymore. I'm in here. I'm with you._

Keith clutches the Transistor close. A hug. A thank you.

_Red_? _Keith? Hey. What are you doing?_

Keith digs the end of the Transistor into the ground, sticking it there.

_Wait. Wait—Keith? Don't—_

Keith sits next to Shiro's body. It's cold. That's okay. Soon, Keith's will be, too.

_Don't! Don't you dare! Keith!_

The Transistor answers him, even as he decides he will no longer wield it. With a turn of Keith's wrist, the sword rises in the air, poised to finally, finally meet the target that has eluded it for so long.

_Don't do this. Please_.

The sword hovers. Keith looks down the blade of the key to world, and feels only peace.

_If you do this... Keith. Please don't._

Keith drops his hand, and the sword plunges into his chest.

_Keith! Keith, no—Red—what—what did you do—what did you... No..._

It was always harder go on alone.

_Keith, no. No._

“ _What I said back there, about seeing you again, face-to-face... I want you to know, I meant it.”_

Keith is in an open field, somewhere out in the country, if he had to guess. 

“Hi,” Shiro says.

Something deep and terrifying and aching and wonderful blooms in Keith's chest. He knows that feeling well. It's love, written into his bones by the man before him, carved into his soul.

“Hey,” Keith answers, and his voice holds.

He's almost afraid to move, afraid to reach out and watch as his fingers pass right through Shiro, to find it's all a terrible dream. But Shiro reaches for him, and pulls him in, and Keith clutches at him like he's never going to let go ever again, and that might just be true.

“I—I thought—” Keith starts, and then stops himself. He's done well enough, without his voice. There are better things to do, now, as Keith draws Shiro down and kisses him, long and slow. This moment will be eternal, for Keith is never going to let it end.

Against Shiro's lips, Keith begins to sing:

_I will always find you, like it's written in the stars._

**Author's Note:**

> it always struck me as intriguing how desperate Boxer is when Red stabs herself. it made me wonder if she ever could actually hear him, the whole way through. I haven't done a replay intentionally enough to see if that's potentially canon, but it's a fun idea. I really liked exploring making it as ambiguous as possible between canon dialogue and my own words whether or not Keith could hear Shiro. I'll leave it up to you :3
> 
> all music references, some bits of dialogue, and title are from Transistor.


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